The love of my life is also my husband and master. He's a very very accommodating man who is also not afraid to take what he wants from me . That makes me the luckiest girl alive. This is my story of submission, of surrender, and of joy - mostly told through sex.

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Saturday, October 3, 2015

Art

Art comes from pain, I've always heard.

It logically follows that when one is happiest, one is least likely to create.

But what happens when happiness is like a long bike ride through the hills? Some of the uphill climb might be wearisome, and one might sit in the shade of a particularly nice tree to let one's heart rate go down, and while doing so one might write a poem. Or sketch a landscape. Or come up with the idea for something amazing.

Happiness doesn't have to stall creation. But people who are happy haven't got much to get out of them, except perhaps the overwhelming joy of just being alive. The hills are alive with the sound of music, yo. They're just not singing to me right now.

I've been there, in that place of overwhelming joy. Last week, even. Perhaps even this week. Thursdays tend to be particularly nice.

But right now I'm stalled about halfway up a hill. Maybe it's a silent hill, or maybe it's a hill that has eyes. I'm hoping it's neither of those and I'd be perfectly fine if it'd just start singing. Well. Maaybe a little creeped out.

Ultimately climbing it will be good for me. But wow, the climb is certainly some work. I'm looking forward to cresting and coasting my way down.

The main problem with this metaphor is that when you're biking you know where the summit is most of the time. You can see it, or see it on your map. Life doesn't give us such easy cues for more complicated situations than geographical layout.

My pain is not immense at the moment, so my art is only small art: a jokey blog post with mixed metaphors. Even so, it feels good to create something more lasting than dinner.